Black Pucka

Some days, around 3:30 or 4:00 in the afternoon, I see an elderly african-american gentleman on our corner. He parks his car and takes out a folding chair to sit in. The chair is high, and he sets it up at the back of the car and looks over the car over to Agassiz Public School. He is well dressed, usually with a nice cardigan sweater and wool pants, and in the cooler fall afternoons he has started wearing a nice brown fedora which hides his silver hair. His silver mustache is still visible from beneath the hat.

I have tried to catch his eye from time to time to say hello, but his eyes are intent on the school as he waits for his grandkids. After seeing him a few times, I have started to build up in my mind this whole fantasy world about him. While I never have seen the kids, I imagined they would be thrilled to see him, just as Donny and Emily were always happy to see their Pucka after a hard day at Latin. I imagined him having these wonderful conversations with them as he drives them home to their parents. Who knows, maybe he lives with them and watches them as well. And with Allyson watching Carter these days, the entire scene brings back nostalgic, happy memories for me. In my mind, I have started calling him Black Pucka.

I don't see Black Pucka every day, but every day I see him, it gives my heart a little lift. Black Pucka reminds me of the good old days of Our Pucka and our kids when they were little. It reminds me of the circle of life, and how in some strange way, while I don't believe in reincarnation, I believe that the patterns of our lives are repeated and played out in many ways. And just as Our Pucka had his routines that we all grew used to, Black Pucka has his little routines, like his high stadium chair, that bring color to the lives of his grandkids. I even imagine the other parents and caretakers seeing Black Pucka and knowing that all is right with the world.

Today, Black Pucka was not on the corner as I went out for an errand around 4 pm. I walked north on Seminary, and saw a little african-american girl dancing on the sidewalk. As I walked closer, I saw that she was making faces at a kid in the back seat. She was either teasing him or trying to make him laugh. She danced around, made faces, waved at him. And then, the driver side door opened, and out of the car came Black Pucka! I finally got to see Black Pucka in action, watch his interaction with his grandchildren, see the great man as he performed the duties that, while appearing mundane, are critical to the kids' happiness and the functioning of a well-run household. Black Pucka in the flesh!

As he approached his granddaughter, I finally heard Black Pucka speak. His voice was a low, rumbling bass, from deep within his chest. He looked at his grandaughter and said in that low, deep voice, "Leave that motherfucker alone".

I guess there are more differences between Our Pucka and Black Pucka than just the color of their skin.